


Tell All the Truth But Tell It Slant

by Meddalarksen



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gaslamp Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Fae & Fairies, Fae Court Politics, Fairy Tale Elements, Grief/Mourning, In the sense of the old tales of the fae not in the sense of the childrens' fairy tales, It's complicated because there's a belief in the death but not....really a truth in it?, M/M, Manipulation of grief, Massive manipulation of faerie myth, Not Really Character Death, Ships added if/when they appear, character list subject to change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meddalarksen/pseuds/Meddalarksen
Summary: When Alex was a boy, his mother told him that the mark around his body was a symbol of the Fair Folks' blessing on him, and that he should never forget that. He believed her, but after he had to watch a casket lowered into the ground and finds himself caught in a tug-of-war between the Seelie and Unseelie Courts, he's beginning to think that maybe fae-touched is acutally fae-cursed.





	1. At Rest - His Fingers Are

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from Emily Dickinson's poem of the same first line.
> 
> So a while back I posted a trio of short pieces that were ostensibly connected but also were very fragmented. This is the result of actually starting to form a cohesive world around them and build them into a story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Emily Dickinson's "Death sets a Thing significant"

Alex tipped his hat down further over his face, standing in front of a stranger's grave as he listened to the eulogy from the next row over.  It was all very nice, giving no indication of the distance within the family, no mention of the deceased's supposed indiscretion in taking a  _ male _ lover.  Alex clenched his fists behind his back, only relaxing his grip when he remembered the small bouquet he held.  He should have waited and come after everything was finished. It wasn't...it wasn't as though Hank would notice.  He knelt in front of the grave he stood by, it wasn't well tended like the others in this part of the cemetery and he forced himself to focus on the name and dates on the stone rather than the funeral he had been effectively barred from—a note informing him he would be unwelcome if he attended.  Well, if he couldn't attend as mourner for the man he was there for, then he might as well pay respects to this unnoticed grave. 

He brushed grass and picked moss from the edges of the gravestone, listening to the minister talk about how Hank was a pillar of the community, a fine upstanding young man taken from them too soon.  Alex grit his teeth and placed his small bouquet on the grave in front of him, "I know I didn't bring these for you, but I think you need them more right now. No one should be forgotten." Or ignored.  

Everything that was being said was true in a sense, but it missed the nuances.  The way Hank got progressively more polite the more angry he was, the way he laughed so that people around him couldn't help but smile, the way he ducked his head when he was embarrassed or trying to divert attention from himself.  The way he and Alex would fight over the  _ stupidest _ things because sometimes they just couldn't figure out that they were both saying the same thing.  The way he never shied away from the mark that circled Alex's torso, dangerous as it was.

Alex stood up, brushing off his trousers and turning to go.  His gaze missed a trio of people under a hawthorn at the edge of the cemetery: two women and a man who didn't quite fit with their surroundings, or with each other.  One of the women had dark hair and tan skin, her eyes nearly as dark as her hair and her black clothes unsuited to a cemetery—a sleeveless dress with a shawl around her shoulders.  As dark as she was the second woman was light, pale skin and violet eyes contrasting with her raven's wing hair, her dress a dark purple rather than black and she looked as though she wasn't far from a smile.  Their male companion was dressed as a laborer, though in dark clothing as suited their surroundings, with a shock of bright red hair and laughing green eyes that were belied by the track of tears on his cheeks.  

The three watched Alex leave and exchanged glances before the man tipped his brimmed cap to the women and left, seeming to fade away into the mist that was rolling into the cemetery in defiance of the spring sunshine.  The aristocratic woman considered and shook her head before slipping away as well, the light of the sun catching in the ribbons of her hat and playing through the colors in them. This left only the working woman to stand in silent guard over the funeral before she too left, flitting away between the few shadows left to the cemetery. 

o-o-o 

Elizabeth Braddock stepped out of her hansom cab, the footman of her home paying the driver as she swept inside.  There was a whisper like wind through trees as she stepped over the door. The shadows in the entry resembled nothing so much as tree shadow, the fixture hanging from the center of the ceiling made of bronze and shaped carefully to resemble ivy and oak leaves.  She pulled off her gloves and unbuttoned her coat, handing both to the footman who had entered behind her. She reached up, already unpinning her hat, "I assume Lord Braddock is in?" 

"Yes, milady," the footman replied, his stature taller than it had seemed in the street, and broader as well.  "He is in the study, milady." 

"Excellent," Elizabeth said, handing over her hat as well.  Her black hair reflected the light, streaks of red and even a few strands of gold catching and holding it.  She left the entry for the richly green-carpeted hallway to her brother's study. She knocked twice on the large oak door, a hawthorn tree carved in it, before opening it and stepping inside, "Brian." 

Brian looked up, his blue eyes and blond hair highlighted by the sunlight pouring through the study window, "Betsy.  How did it go?" 

"The Host and the Others both had representatives there as well.  None of us acted, but I expect that the Host will be making a move sooner rather than later." 

"What interest could the Others have?  They're barely a collective beyond their lack of participation in the Courts." 

"I don't know.  But he was definitely not of one of the Courts.  Perhaps he was there as balance. I need to go to Court to determine if we have the Beloved or not.  We  _ should _ but you know how the politics can go." 

Brian grimaced, gesturing to some of the papers in front of him, the ink on them glinting in a way that indicated they weren't mundane, "Do I ever.  When are you leaving?" 

"Tomorrow at sunrise, I think, should get me there at a reasonable hour.  A summer's child that the Unseelie Host want. I've never heard of such a thing," Betsy said, with a shake of her head. 

"Considering the Beloved, can you blame them?  Both Courts will be champing at the bit to claim that intelligence and creativity for their own and the only way to do that is through the fae-touched." 

"You say that as though they won't be after the fae-touched as well," Betsy said. 

"Well of course they will.  Once they've claimed the Beloved they  _ have _ to take him too," Brian responded. 

Betsy frowned, "You haven't been near him, so I'll let that slide as ignorance.  The magic curling under his skin has destructive power enough that either Court will want him just to keep him away from the other, I expect.  And it's untested so they'll be able to shape it however they like." 

Brian's lips twisted into a grimace that looked out of place on his handsome features, "I suppose we will see.  I expect they'll quarter him away if they do get hold of the fae-touched." 

Betsy raised an eyebrow at that, "We'll have to agree to disagree, Brian." 

"Oh, I want to do some more training before you go back to the Court," Brian said as though he'd just remembered it. 

Betsy offered him an exasperated look, "I'm leaving at dawn." 

"And there are hours yet 'til dinner.  I'll meet you in the ballroom in half an hour?" 

She shook her head at her brother and left his study without gracing him with a reply 

o-o-o 

The dragon waved a tanned hand at the doors to the Court and slipped through them before they were fully open, her wings coiling back against her shoulders again.  Pulling her dark shawl more around her shoulders she wove through the myriad halls of the Dark Court, her clothing rippling in the shadows like her skin did when her wings emerged.  By the time she reached the Center, her skirts were flowing and her shawl had wound itself into sleeves of lace. The back of her gown was open to allow passage of the gossamer wings that stood for her flight in humanoid form.  As she stepped into the Audience Chamber, she unfurled her wings, the iridescence fading to darkness and the separate wings binding themselves into their natural width. 

She offered a deep bow, her wings outstretched behind her as she approached the throne, "Lord." 

"Salvadore, what news have you brought me?" The Ly Erg asked. 

The dragon rose from her bow, brushing her dark hair back from her face, "The coffin was put into the ground.  There was a Gentry there. And one of the Others, the messengers' contact." 

"The Others know better than to interfere in what does not concern them.  But the Gentry. Which?" 

"I've not seen her before.  Hair like the raven's wing and eyes like amethyst," she replied, dark eyes glinting themselves in the low light.

"They'll be after the Beloved, who we've claimed by right of conquest," Ly Erg rumbled, his right hand clenching on the arm of his throne, the red staining the stone as surely as his skin.  "We need the fae-touched if we're to solidify our claim." 

"If the Beloved--" 

"He won't lay claim to this Court of his own will.  Even if he does, the Gentry will claim that if he is Beloved of one of  _ theirs _ then he is theirs as well," Ly Erg said.  "It would be a simple matter to take them to war for that, but it seems a waste of time." 

Salvadore inclined her head, "What do you wish of me, Lord?" 

"Reach the fae-touched.  The Gentry will believe their hold complete with nothing more than his name and flames.  Offer him that which I'm sure he wants. Offer him the Beloved." 

"And if he accepts?" 

Ly Erg's lips tipped up at the corners, his ice blue eyes mirthless, "Then give it to him.  He's ours once the contract's enacted no matter how many years it takes for it to be fulfilled.  Everyone's happy. Well, except the Gentry. But I don't expect he will accept. We shall have to see.  He might surprise me." 

The dragon offered another low bow, slipping out of the Audience Chamber, her clothing reverting the further she walked and her wings becoming the gossamer of a fly's wings once more. 

o-o-o 

Sean pushed open the door of the Weeping Well, breathing a soft sigh as he felt the magic of the place slide over his skin like a familiar coat.  He walked over to the bar rather than his preferred table in the back corner. Shrugging off the dark workman's coat, he rested his elbows on the bar.  He buried his face in his hands as the bartender approached, "A bottle of Irish Whiskey, Kevan. It'll be better to just leave it than to have to refill my cup all night." 

"That bad?" Kevan asked, and Sean heard the clink of a glass and bottle being set on the wood.  "I thought you were just going down to see a soul off?" 

"I did too.  But it's gotten...complicated.  The soul wasn't there," Sean said, unburying his face in order to pour an overfull glass of whiskey. 

"Well it isn't usually at the funerals, is it?" Kevan asked, pouring a drink and sliding it down to the human down the bar who was demanding one. 

"It wasn't there to begin with.  Or it was but now it's...forget it.  The important thing is both Courts are interested in this one.  And in the Mourner." 

Kevan paled at that, "Both of them?" 

"Angel and Miss Braddock were both there," Sean said.  "I haven't spoken to Miss Braddock, but I know her by reputation.  And if Angel was there then Ly Erg is interested." 

"Fuck," Kevan said, heartfelt. 

Sean finished his drink and poured another, tipping the glass to Kevan, "Fuck is right."


	2. The Spectre of Solidities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from Emily Dickinson's "We do not know the time we lose"

Betsy stopped before the small door in the house she and her brother shared. It looked like a wall panel and no mortal guests had ever questioned it. It was carved from hawthorn with an image of an elder tree, surrounded by heather and thyme which spread out to the edges of the door where it gave way to an edging of holly and roses.

She pressed lightly on the rose at shoulder height on the right side and then at the center of the elder tree’s trunk, causing the door to swing open. As she stepped through, her mortal illusion fell away, dark hair fading to a violet that matched her eyes and her ears growing more pointed. The dark fabric of her dress faded, glimmers of light seeming caught in the weave of the skirt and sunlight glinted on the threads as she walked through the wooded glen to the Gates. For all the effort she and Brian put in for the Court one would think they could get access directly to the halls, but of course that would be putting the mortal realm _too_ near.

She barely spared a glance for the Gatekeeper as she swept into the halls and through them to the Court. The sounds of speech and merriment quieted in her wake and by the time she came before the Throne of the Fair Folk the entire Court had silenced. She bowed at the waist, her glowing sword having taken shape at her side the further into the Court she came, “Your Majesty.”

Ororo, Queen of the Summer Court, offered her a smile, “What news, my knight?”

Betsy straightened to meet Ororo’s gaze steadily, “A service was held yesterday for the Beloved of one of our Fae-Touched. I had been under the impression that we would not be seeing either of them for some years and wished to know if the times had changed?”

“You are certain it is one of ours?”

She nodded, “It is the Court’s magic that surrounds him. Laid on him by your predecessor I believe.”

There was a low rumble of thunder in the distance as Ororo’s expression darkened at the reminder of the previous ruler of the Seelie. She seemed to consider for a moment and then clapped her hands twice to draw any attention that wasn’t already fixed on them, “Go about your merriment, my knight, my seer and I will withdraw.”

There was a low grumble of half-hearted dissent which fell silent at a sharp look from Ororo and a glimpse of the Seer, Sage, stepping up to her side. Betsy followed the other two women into one of the side chambers reserved for the Queen’s Business.  Ororo removed her branching crown, setting it on the table in the middle of the room and sighing, “We’ve sent no call for the Beloved of any of ours, have we, Sage?”

Sage shook her head, her blue eyes focused on the middle distance, “Not for more than two decades as the humans reckon it, Ororo.”

“I was there for the service, but so was a Bean Sidhe. And one of the Host,” Betsy said, glancing from Ororo to Sage and back.

“Bean Sidhe always attend the laying to rest of those tied to the Courts in some way,” Sage said.

“But the Unseelie Host attendance is concerning,” Ororo said. She leaned against the table, focusing on Betsy, “Who was it?”

“The dragon, Ly Erg’s messenger unless I’m mistaken.”

“You aren’t usually,” Ororo said, looking toward Sage who nodded.

Closing her eyes, Sage reached up to touch the corners of the scars that trailed down on either side of her face, “What lies in that coffin is autumn leaves and winter’s frost held together with mud and with two--”

“Chips of crystal,” Ororo said, shoulders dropping in resignation.

“That have never seen the light of the sun,” Sage agreed, opening her eyes.

Betsy darted a glance between them, “You mean that the Host stole the Beloved of one of our Fae-Touched. That...that could be an act of war.”

“No,” Ororo said, her tone brooking no dissent on that front. “Ly Erg is within his right of conquest to have managed it and convinced us until after the burial. However, we still hold the stronger claim so long as neither the Beloved nor the Fae-Touched pledges themselves to his Court. We need a formal agreement with the Fae-Touched in order to prevent that. Our claim on both of them will be the stronger for it because of our magic already woven.”

“What are your orders, My Queen?” Betsy asked.

“Watch the Fae-Touched, help him where you are able, and keep the Host away from him. Since they have the Beloved they also have the best bargaining chip they could ask for in his grief,” Ororo said.

Sage spoke, “It will take more than one to do that.”

“Then I will asses the rest of the Court and find some who might aid you and your brother, Betsy. Are you amenable?”

Betsy nodded after a moment, “If they’ve walked in the mortal world at least a little it will be easier, but whoever you send I’ll see to.”

“Then it’s decided,” Ororo said, straightening and picking up the branching crown again. “I will see you soon again, I hope, Betsy. It is too rare that My Knight is in Court.”

“As soon as I am able, Ororo,” Betsy promised with a bow at the waist. Ororo nodded to her and left the room, but Sage reached out and caught Betsy’s arm before she could follow.

“You’re going to need to be on your guard. Ly Erg is likely already moving to create a deal with the Fae-Touched and he won’t brook interference.”

Betsy smiled very slightly, “I have a few tricks up my sleeve that even Ly Erg won’t be able to predict. Don’t worry so much, Sage, and I’ll see you when I return to Court again. Or you could be one of the ones who come to aid me.”

“With a possible war with the Unseelie on the horizon?” Sage shook her head, “I’m more needed here. Good hunting, Knight.”

“Fair sight, Seer,” Betsy replied before leaving, following the winding backways to the mortal realm and her home there.

o-o-o

Alex finished the whiskey he was drinking, setting the glass and the coin to pay for it down on the bar and getting to his feet.  He sidestepped, nearly stumbling, around a man who was drunk enough it was a miracle he was standing. Part of Alex, the part that needed something to fight, thought about running into the man instead. Most of him, though, couldn’t care. Besides, in the state he was in it was better that he not get his anger up.

Fae-kissed was what some called it. Fae-cursed was more like. He could feel the flames crackling under his skin along the mark that wrapped around his torso from right hip to right shoulder blade. He needed to go home: home to an empty flat and an emptier bed.

Alex pushed his way out of the bar, his mind going over the same track it had for the past week, ever since he’d come home to find Hank still and cold on the floor of the flat. If only he’d come home sooner, if he had taken one less shift, one less hour. Maybe then he would have at least _been there_ so Hank didn’t die alone. Maybe then he would have been there to _stop_ whatever had happened. There hadn’t been any sort of inquest even though a healthy man in his prime suddenly dropping dead should have raised some questions. But no, Hank’s family had insisted on a quick and quiet burial, wouldn’t want to be blighted with the scandal if anyone found out _where_ their son had been found and by _whom_.

Alex slammed the side of his fist against a brick wall, cursing and leaving it there. He pressed his forehead against his fist, breathing and willing the heat back deeper into his core and away from the brink of an explosion.  God, he would give anything, absolutely anything, to change what had happened. There were moments where he thought he might be willing to actually sell his soul for it, it wasn’t like he was making much use of the thing after all. He tried not to think those things too loudly. After all, if people were right and he was Fae-kissed it would be just his luck for them to show up and accept the bargain. And it wouldn’t be….nothing they could give would be what he actually wanted. It wouldn’t be real.

Pushing away from the wall, Alex started down the street again. He had to find _something_ to help. Going to the cemetery had done nothing but make things worse. Drinking didn’t help numb what he was feeling, it just meant he dwelt on it.

He came around a corner and stopped when he saw the lights of a church, the congregation leaving from what the tolling bells indicated was evening mass. He hadn’t set foot in a house of god in more than a decade, too much of him “wrong” in their eyes, but maybe just a short visit? Just to send up a prayer for a soul that deserved it? Some action to prove that he cared what had happened and what could happen after death.

Alex shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced up at where the clouds were partially obscuring the moon. He drew a deep breath and made his way along the gaslit street to the front door, carefully avoiding parishioners and only hoping he could avoid the priest as easily. He ducked through the door into the vestibule and pulled his hat off, holding it between his hands as he made his way through the church proper.

He kept to the edges of the nave, walking past the pews where supplicants were still seated and he stopped at the bye-altar positioned at the feet of the Virgin. He knelt and went through the long-remembered motions incidentally before he lit a candle and got to his feet. He left the same way he had come, turning his collar up against the fog that was rolling in.

The hairs on the back of Alex’s neck rose and he looked around, the only other soul on the street a man with red hair, just doffing his cap as he approached the church.  Alex shivered and turned away, heading in the opposite direction. The candle hadn’t helped him, but maybe there was still just enough of a seed of faith in him for it to help Hank on his way.

o-o-o

Sean watched as the mourner walked away, head low. He shifted on the base of the steps up to the church. This close to the sanctification and his skin started to itch, his eyes burning, and it didn't seem like it had helped the mourner any to have been in there. He hesitated and started to step down to follow the man when a hand caught him by the arm, "Stop interfering."

Sean startled, looking from the hand and then up to firm brown eyes, "Moira. I'm not interfering."

Moira pressed her lips together, her hair caught up into a bun on the top of her head and her clothes a practical dress and gloves with a long coat over them, all of fairly rough materials, "What are you doing so close to a church, Sean?"

Moira wasn't one of them, wasn't even fae-touched, but she had dedicated her life to finding them and acting as a ballast. She was one of the few true mortals who ever entered the Weeping Well without looking for some deal or other. She had had a child, a son, though it was uncertain as to whether he had been fae-touched or a true changeling. Whatever the case, his form hadn't been able to hold the fae magic and the reality manipulation that it had given him. Moira didn't talk about it, but Sean had carefully pieced together the bits and pieces he could find.

"The Courts are both after this one, Moira. He shouldn't be mourning, there wasn't ever a soul in whatever was buried in the grave, just magic."

Moira stepped forward and looped her arm through his, starting to pull him down the street away from the church while making it look like they were out for a stroll, "And what, you're going to take down the Courts over one of us?"

"He's not one of you," Sean said and winced at the way Moira's hand tightened on his arm, "not completely. But no, I'm not taking on the Lord and Queen. That's suicide and I happen to like living. I also don't _care_ except this could become war. Both of the Courts were present at the graveside."

"How much will a war affect the world?" Moira asked, strangely calm considering the tightness in her voice that came with repressed sorrows that often accompanied touching Sean.

"Summer Court versus Winter Court in all of their power?" Sean asked. "Storms and confusion. Villages have disappeared in the past, pulled into Faerie. Higher creation of the fae-touched too, a higher calling for them as well, pulling in any fae-touched or changelings loyal to the Courts, or touched by the Courts." He paused to consider, "Riotous nature in the wildlands and chaos and violence in the cities. Sometimes the turmoil of Faerie comes through in strange ways. Other times it comes through in its true form."

And there was the spark of anger Sean had come to expect from Moira when he talked of the effects on the physical world, "How many? How many people will die or, or _vanish_ because of some other-worldly squabble?"

"A small city's worth. Whether because they're fae-touched, changelings, or simply in the wrong place," Sean said simply, it was what it was after all. They were mortals; they lived, they died, the world kept spinning. Bean Sidhe weren't immortal in the sense of some of the fae, but their lives were long enough that they would watch generations come and go. Sean was young, not yet a century, though he didn't look more than twenty. Another three hundred years and he would finally look as his grandmother had near the end of her time.

Moira stopped abruptly and Sean looked at her, "You're telling me that _hundreds_ of mortals will die or disappear as a direct result of the war. That’s not even considering those who are killed or injured because of violence in the cities, or the privations that either drought or excess rain can cause in the farmlands."

"People die, Moira. That's how your world turns. They would die if it was a mortal war, they would die because of a bad harvest or a thief who was just a little too twitchy that day. That's what mortals _do_ ," Sean said. "That's why I exist. Grief doesn't come without loss."

"Grief or not, you have to have _mourners_ to have grief. We wouldn't be pulled into an unknown war, at least!" Moira said. "You spend too much time among the fae, even though you live in our world. You forget that we matter, too. You're getting to be as bad as Charles and his magics."

“And you forget that I’m not one of you, unlike Charles.” Sean let go of just a little of his magic, trying not to be satisfied when it made Moira flinch. He shook his head, "Of course you matter. We existed before and we’ll exist after, but the beliefs of mortals do have power. Whether you matter or not, death is always coming. What makes it so different if it's because of the Courts than because your human Queen has gone to war? Or because of a bad harvest? Why does it matter if they know where it comes from? They're still dead."

Moira's eyes flashed and her hand tightened painfully on his arm, but she didn't seem to have an answer.

"If you expect me to go stop this, you're mad. I won't be going to the Courts. By my very nature I should have pledged to one or the other, but I didn't. I chose to keep myself separate and _neither_ of them appreciated that. It'll be as good as my head, but if you'd like to, be my guest," Sean said.

Moira's fingers dug into his sleeve and Sean idly considered if they might leave bruises, "Promise me you'll help him where you can. Not by stalking him but by helping. If he's the key to this like you say, then that's what needs to be done."

Sean stared at her and then shook his head, "No. A promise is binding. I'll help if I can, but I won't promise to do so. And if I don't want to I won't."

Moira let him go abruptly, “If this goes like you say it could then I guess the grief will be enough to keep even you sated." She turned on her heel and left, Sean standing and staring after her before he turned up the collar of his coat and took the nearest path back to the Weeping Well and his room there.


End file.
